Blue-Black Like Midnight
by Whatevermynature
Summary: I saw more colors in your eyes that day, damp with un-shed tears, positively glistening- Christ, I always see stars when I look at you- but this was different, I understood why people say black is a mixture of all the colors because I didn't just see the stars I saw the entire sky. Blue-black like midnight, like memories. (Note from Harry to Theo, Muggle AU)


It was like they wrapped a ship's anchor around your arm and told you to hold on to it. Dear God, did you hold on to it, like it wasn't meant to drag you down, like you weren't literally holding the weight of the world in one hand and life in the other- if life were a ravenous dog all sharp teeth and fangs set on chewing it's way up to your jugular. You held on though. Sometimes I wonder how you got so _good _at holding on. We used to go to empty houses, not quite built yet, just the frame and the barest hint of what it could be like finished. I swear you made a home there, in the spaces between, in the barest moments- in the breaths of what could be.

I saw more colors in your eyes that day, damp with un-shed tears, positively glistening- Christ, I always see stars when I look at you- but _this_ was different, I understood why people say black is a mixture of all the colors because I didn't just see the _stars _I saw the entire _sky. _Blue-black like midnight, like memories.

(I miss you. I can't look at you the same anymore.)

Now, when I want to chart your face I have to look to the skies, count constellations like freckles, shooting stars, and pretend I can see light flickering across your face in the dim yellow-moon glow. It burns me, supernova hot, like the galaxy is incinerating inside of me to think of you, but I do. It's my version of holding on, never letting you go, always, _always _burning. Always thinking.

You would think I would stop going to the houses now that they're built. I go to try to see the space in between now that the moments are gone. Past the 'For Sale' sign into the empty heart of the house hollowed out before it's even been used.

I feel at home there- in the emptiness, the sadness.

(You make me sad.)

Not in the space between, but the moment after. When the laughter is gone. When the lights are out. When the teeth have chewed through your arm and you wish to God, to somebody- that they would have gone for your heart instead of your throat, then it wouldn't hurt so much… then.

Then I wouldn't be here, wondering if houses have memories.

You told me once, that you wouldn't let go of the anchor, that you wouldn't let _The World_, down. You didn't let go and I wonder, do you _know _what anchors do?

(They drag you down.)

I think about Atlas a lot while I sit here in this empty house looking out the window at the sky. The Titan in Greek mythology who was tasked with holding up the Celestial Heavens? The wood floors are butter-soft as I pound on them, choking on my sorrow, and I think it's ironic that I think of you as the skies when you drowned in yourself.

Emptiness is my place of worship lately . My temple, my sacred place. I find myself wallowing in it and talking to the skies. A lunatic raving about anchors and teeth. They didn't wrap an anchor around my arm when they tore me apart. They wrapped _you. _

(You left me.)

Death on one side, you on the other.

(Wake up.)

You told me over the phone, voice hoarse from what I thought was sleep, that you would _tell me_ if it ever got to be too much. You told me, a million promises layered in your words, that we were in this _together. _You told me, hands tangled in my hair, eyes crinkled from laughter- the barest scent of bar soap clinging to your skin- you loved me. _You traced yourself onto every part of me._

(You lied to me.)

I keep finding constellations on my skin. I can't tell if I hate them, or you, or everything. You said, nobody would care.

(I care.)

Nobody would miss you.

(I miss you.)

Nobody loves you.

(I love you.)

You said a lot. How could I forget? You wrote it all down. I called the police you know? When you jumped. Note pinned in your pocket, swearing you were going to die, right before you hung up on me and jumped into the water. I hear the dial tone when I look at you, machines beeping. Half dead, but not quite alive.

(I wrote you a note.)

I wish you'd wake up. The house is empty.


End file.
